


With Regards to Mr. Hands

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Discussion of Horse Cock, Drabble, Drinking, Fluff, Humor, M/M, New Year's Kiss, No Bestiality Takes Place in this Fic, Seasonal Affective Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Cartman seeks Kenny out for solace on New Year's.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	With Regards to Mr. Hands

**Author's Note:**

> one of those things where i opened a doc and started typing without thinking. written over the course of 2 or 3 midnight sittings. finished one sentence and forgot about it the second i hit enter. was pretty fun but don't expecting anything intelligible. didn't know how i wanted to end it so...i just stopped lol.
> 
> please do not fuck horses.

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Every new year Cartman ferried their Christmas decorations under his mother’s sniveling nose. It was a pretty tricky operation given her hysteria. She was insufferable during the holidays and got even crazier once they passed. The dismantlement of his old handmade ornaments could take up to a week. Once, she kept the tree up until _February_ until it sagged and dropped dead pine needles all over the living room floor.

He expedited the blubbery ordeal this year by sneaking some pills into Liane’s lasagna. Rest assured she was comatose in bed, he tip-toed downstairs Grinch-like and broke about half their ornaments tossing them into a bunch of plastic totes. The sight of the wilted tree sitting on the curb would send Liane into a tizzy upon reanimation, so he strapped it to the top of the minivan, put all the boxes in the trunk, and shot off.

It was necessary to keep everything outside of the house. Liane couldn’t be trusted not to go into the basement and sob an hour away stroking his elementary headshots framed by glitter and popsicle sticks. She’d lay them out in a chronological line, kindergarten through sixth grade. Sometimes Cartman thought about accidentally setting all of it on fire. But if he did that Liane would probably die in grief and he’d have to go out and get his own place. He couldn’t afford rent on top of schlubbing through community college part-time. So he navigated her insanity to the best of his twenty three years of experience, which included driving to U-Stor-It at three in the morning on January first.

He rolled through the sticks to avoid the main drags bloated with drunken revelry. Pine needles rained down his windshield as he bumbled over the tracks. His vision was impeded further by a gauzy snowfall. He figured he should pull over before he ran into a ditch, and just so _happened_ to come upon Kenny’s house. He pulled up beside Stuart’s pickup and assessed the scene to see if any of this was worth his time.

Light spilled out from under the broken garage door which sat permanently half-cocked; shadowy blobs danced across the alighted gravel, punctuated by the sound of bare feet sliding across dusty cement. A muffled Limp Bizkit track shook the dark night. Had to be Kenny. Nobody else had such awful taste in music.

Cartman got out of the van, stalked forward, and rolled underneath the garage door. “Hey, Kenny—” Something hard struck his spine, sent him flopping onto his belly. “Ouch!”

“Whoa!” The weapon clattered. Hands scrabbled at Cartman’s coat. Cartman shook them off and stood, scowling. Kenny shuffled back, palms out. “Sorry, man. You can’t sneak up on me like that when I’m training.”

“ _Training_?” Cartman spotted the nun-chucks at Kenny’s feet. “What’re you _training_ for? A ninja invasion?”

Kenny swung the nun-chucks around his neck, the chain tangling in his long hair, the chucks hanging equilateral with his Denver Nuggets hoodie strings. “Yes,” he said.

Cartman lowered his gaze to Kenny’s twig legs left naked beneath a pair of ratty gym shorts. “Aren’t you cold?”

Kenny scratched his hairy shin with his toenail, a little wobbly, probably two six-packs of PBR into the evening. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, planting his foot back on the floor.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Cartman said.

“The neighborhood,” Kenny repeated. “On New Year’s Eve?”

“Yes,” Cartman said. “Totally coincidental.”

“Oh—” Kenny’s face cleared with a grin. “You’re sneaking all your Christmas stuff out.”

“Thought I’d get a head start,” Cartman said. “My mom’s been especially horrendous. I think she’s going through menopause.”

“Gross,” Kenny said.

Cartman shouldered past Kenny and plunked into the couch against the wall like he owned the place. The McCormicks probably wouldn’t even own the place, here soon. They were one more late mortgage payment away from foreclosure.

Kenny spun on his heel, nun-chucks a-clanging, and sat down beside Cartman. Neither of them said anything for awhile. Kenny wasn’t the type of person who always had to talk. In fact, he preferred not to talk. Cartman appreciated somebody who appreciated quiet.

The trash lining the perimeter of the room rustled. Probably a rat. Or a giant radioactive cockroach. Or a stray cat. Kenny attracted gremlin. Kenny was a gremlin. He folded his gremlin leg up onto the couch, stabbed Cartman’s thigh with his gremlin knee, reached down and grabbed a gremlin Pabst Blue Ribbon with his gremlin fingers.

“Want a beer?” he asked.

Cartman held out his hand. “Assuming you don’t have anything other than piss water.”

A lukewarm can was placed in his palm. “You assumed correct.”

Cartman cracked it open and swilled a disgusting mouthful. It was easiest to drink PBR quick as you could. The stuff funneled down his gullet and battled with his stomach acid. “So,” he said after wiping the grimace off his mouth, “you’re playing ninja on New Year’s?”

“Yup,” Kenny said. He reconnoitered his own half-finished can from the cinderblock-and-plywood table buttressing the couch. “It’s part of my resolution to become a samurai.”

“That’s great,” Cartman said. “It’s good to have goals. Maybe next year your resolution can be to grow the fuck up.”

“Ha-ha,” Kenny said. “What about you? What’s yours?”

Cartman set his beer on the table, wrestled out of his coat, and traded each item before melting back into the couch. “Mine’s to not go insane.”

“Resolutions are supposed to be realistic,” Kenny told him.

“Oh, yeah, like you’re gonna become a shinobi,” Cartman snorted.

“I _am_ ,” Kenny insisted. He kicked his gremlin feet on top of Cartman’s coat, soles black with garage dirt. He took a final drink of beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it to join its brethren behind the couch. When he turned his head his eyes were fuzzy, half-drunk. “New shirt?” he asked, toying with Cartman’s sleeve.

“Mom got it for me,” Cartman said. He didn’t much mind Kenny’s gremlin fingers on his wrist, separated from his skin as they were by the fabric of his cable-knit sweater. “Feel like a Catholic schoolboy. But it’s warm.”

Kenny snickered. “Haha!” This time he laughed for real. “Catholic schoolboy, Jesus. I can only imagine.”

“I’d turn all the nuns atheist,” Cartman smirked. “Nobody’ll believe in God after seeing me.”

“Satanist, maybe,” Kenny pondered. His fingers slipped under Cartman’s sleeve, looking for his accelerating pulse point. Bump-bump-bump. “Why’re you here? Everybody’s at Token’s place, you know.”

Cartman twisted to look at Kenny, got a whiff of his mildewy breath in return. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I don’t like parties,” Kenny said. “I don’t like people.”

“Well neither do I,” Cartman said. “I’d rather duke it out at a storage facility. Go one-on-one with the homeless people.”

“Two-on-one, you mean,” Kenny corrected.

Cartman grasped one end of Kenny’s nun-chucks and ripped out a thousand hairs whipping them off his neck. “Uh-huh.”

“That hurt,” Kenny said, not sounding hurt at all.

Cartman tossed the mall purchase aside. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

Kenny retaliated by resting his head on Cartman’s shoulder. He was around fifteen feet taller than Cartman and probably broke his backbone doling the punishment, but he was pretty insistent on physical contact knowing how much it squicked Cartman out. For whatever reason Cartman put up with it. The fingers around his wrist dug in. Bump-bump-bump.

He polished off the rest of his PBR. He needed to get on Kenny’s level or he wouldn’t survive the night. The garbage squeaked, affronted, when he discarded the can. A tiny quadruped form darted out of the garage too quick to discern.

“Gimme another beer,” Cartman said.

They drank in silence. Conversational silence, at least. Limp Bizkit thrummed out of the shoddy sound system stacked on top of a workbench cluttered with everything but tools. Kenny’s hand wormed deeper into Cartman’s sleeve. He was so skinny his arm barely stretched the fabric. He ended up turned around on his knees massaging Cartman’s t-shirted shoulder, his other arm hanging off the back of the couch.

“Kenny,” Cartman said.

“Uh-huh,” Kenny prompted.

Cartman tried glaring at him, but his hair blocked him from view. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” Kenny said. “Wanna fuck?”

Cartman sighed. “Alright.”

Kenny retracted, laid Cartman across on the couch. He finished his beer straddling Cartman’s hips. “How?” he burped.

“How, what?” Cartman asked.

“How do you wanna fuck?” Kenny asked.

“Oh, well.” Cartman lifted his neck, finished his own beer. “Blindfold me. Surprise me.”

Kenny took the empty can out of his hand, carelessly tossed both away, then curled his spine, his gremlin face flushed with cold and alcohol and lust. “I took a massive shit, like, an hour ago. So my butt’s off limits. Unless you’re into that.”

“That’s nice,” Cartman said. “That’s really fucking nice, Kenny. Are you trying to give me a boner or make me puke?”

“Maybe both,” Kenny said. “Maybe I’m into _that_.”

His Dener Nuggets hoodie hung loose off his skinny frame. Cartman easily slipped his arms inside and found Kenny wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “Jesus, dude. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”

Kenny laid down, assuaged by Cartman’s embrace. His hoodie bunched over his shoulder-blades and exposed his back to the cold. “Nuh-huh,” he mumbled. “Now that you’re here.”

“Or wear some fucking clothes,” Cartman propositioned. He soothed Kenny’s shivering spine with his palms, sweater sleeves raking over Kenny’s goose-pimpled skin. “You’re freezing.”

“Warm me up then,” Kenny said.

“You can’t rely on me to be your personal _furnace_ ,” Cartman huffed.

“Sure I can.” Kenny’s icicle nose stabbed Cartman’s neck. “You came by, didn’t you?”

“You’re a siphon,” Cartman said. “Quit siphoning me.” He shoved Kenny’s head off. It landed in between his shoulder and the back of the couch. “I changed my mind,” he said. “Forget about it.”

Kenny’s hair puffed with his response, but did not lift enough to reveal his face; he probably measured it out to remain hidden. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll quit siphoning you.”

“It’s too late,” Cartman said.

“Aw, come on.” Kenny finally raked his hair back, the fuzz in his eyes sharpened to attention. “I’ll quit screwing around, I promise. I’m horny.”

Cartman looked at the exposed ceiling. “I’m not. I’m horny as a Catholic nun.”

“I think Catholic nuns are the horniest people in the world,” Kenny theorized.

“Whatever,” Cartman said. “I’m not gonna bone just because I’m bored. I can’t get erect just because I want to. I don’t have your penis telepathy.”

Kenny pressed his fingertips against his temple and squeezed his eyes shut, looking constipated. “Are you hard yet?” he asked.

“Nope,” Cartman said.

“Damn.” Kenny’s forehead unwrinkled. He nuzzled Cartman’s neck again, his nuclear nose nullified. “What’s the deal?”

Cartman looked back at the ceiling. Rotten chunks of wood threatened to fall and crack his brain open. “I think I’m depressed.”

“Clinically?” Kenny asked.

“It’s just a depressing time of the year. Or the new year, I guess,” Cartman reasoned. He glanced at the dandelion crown of Kenny’s drandruffed head. “It’s not clinical. Don’t call the psych ward.”

“Man, I don’t even know how I’d call them,” Kenny said. “The hotline’s probably 666.”

“Probably,” Cartman said.

Kenny’s gremlin face rose, curtained by hair that tickled Cartman’s chin. “What’s so depressing, anyway?” he asked. “It’s not like it matters. Everybody takes the new year too seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

Cartman pulled Kenny onto his chest. He couldn’t speak his mind under Kenny’s soul-baring ocular analysis. “It kind of is,” he said. “It’s like Sunday night. You can’t enjoy it because you’ve got the whole week to worry about. Except it’s the whole year in front of you.”

“Mondays are a state of mind,” Kenny said. “Every day is Saturday if you want it to be.”

“No it’s not,” Cartman said. “You can’t _pretend_ it’s Saturday. And I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about a whole three-hundred-sixty-five days. Weekdays and weekends. Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it might be clinical,” Kenny said. “That sounds like a clinically depressed thing to say.”

Cartman tugged Kenny’s hoodie down his back, smoothed the fabric under his hands; Kenny ceased shivering. “No it’s not,” he said. “If it was, everybody would be clinically depressed.”

“I’m not clinically depressed. I don’t think that way,” Kenny said.

“That’s because you’re clinically insane,” Cartman said.

Kenny couldn’t argue that. He started tracing the cables on Cartman’s sweater, his chewed up fingernails catching every turn. “You need a resolution,” he decided. “Something to keep you focused. Like when it’s Monday, you’ve got Saturday to look forward to. You need something to look forward to.”

“I don’t look forward to anything,” Cartman said. “I don’t look back, either. Or up or down. I’m goddamn blind.”

“You’re a _pessimist_ ,” Kenny said. He braced his palm over Cartman’s heart and lifted his head. “Come on, there’s oughta be something.”

“I look forward to see you, I guess,” Cartman admitted.

“Yeah?” Kenny asked.

“Yes,” Cartman said. “Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

“I thought maybe to have sex,” Kenny said.

“All you think about is sex,” Cartman said. “All I am to you is a sex machine.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kenny said. “If you were, I’d take you into the shop. You’re malfunctioned.”

“Nobody’s cylinders are firing all the time,” Cartman said. “That’s just you. You’ve got the sex drive of a bonobo monkey.”

Kenny’s lips pursed. “A what?”

“They’re the most sexually active primate,” Cartman informed. “They fuck to say hello. They have orgies every day. You’d fit right in.”

“Monkey dick, huh,” Kenny deliberated. “Maybe.”

Cartman coiled one of Kenny’s hoodie strings around his finger. “See? You’re thinking about it. That’s disgusting. Bestiality's a felony. I’m gonna call you Mr. Hands.”

“I’m not even gonna ask,” Kenny said.

“It’s this guy who died whilst being penetrated by a massive horse cock,” Cartman said.

“Dude, shut up,” Kenny giggled.

“He did it more than once,” Cartman smirked. “I think the last time he was just low on lube. He got too confident. But there was this whole ring of horse fuckers. The equine shaft is pretty substantial. I can’t imagine going back to human after that.”

Kenny’s giggling evolved into full-on laughter. He laughed open-mouthed, crooked yellow teeth on full display. His laugh sounded like a rubber chicken that was getting sodomized and set on fire all at once.

Cartman smiled and grabbed his sides, to feel his stomach billow in and out. “I’m serious! I’m serious, Kenny. Don’t go cheating on me with a damn thoroughbred.”

“Okay,” Kenny panted. “Oh, man.” He blinked the tears off his tawny eyelashes and wiggled his ruddy cheek into Cartman’s splayed hair. “You’re stupid,” he said.

Cartman turned his head, countering, “You’re stupider.”

“What if you were a centaur, though?” Kenny asked.

“Oh, you fucking little—” Cartman rolled onto his side and blocked Kenny in with his hefty frame. “You think you’re cute, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kenny grinned. “Watcha gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Cartman said. “I’m gonna take you out in the woods and torture you. Then cut off your limbs and throw you in a river.”

“That’s hot,” Kenny said. He cupped Cartman’s jaw in his hands. “You’re really hot, Eric.”

“Thanks,” Cartman said. “So are you.”

“Tell me more about how you’d kill me,” Kenny requested.

“Oh, well, initially I’d say I’d get a horse and let him fuck you to death,” Cartman said. “But now that I know you’re into it there’s no point.”

Kenny shook his head. “I’m not. I’m not into it. The only dick I like is yours.”

“My dick likes hearing that,” Cartman said. “My dick’s kind of insecure with itself.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Kenny said. “Tell it that it’s awesome.”

“I will next time I fap,” Cartman promised.

“Good,” Kenny said.

He thumbed Cartman’s bottom lip. Cartman leaned down and kissed him. Kenny bloomed under his mouth.

Cartman parted at the hand worming down his pants. “Still not horny,” he said.

Kenny pouted. “Aw, man. Thought I had ya for a second.”

“You do,” Cartman said. “You have me. It’s just the weather. It’s the holidays. I hate ‘em.”

“I know, babe.” Kenny’s rubbed Cartman’s flank underneath his jeans. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Give me a week,” Cartman said. “We’ll go at it like the bonobos.”

“Okay,” Kenny said. “Can we still makeout?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Cartman scoffed.

He opened his mouth to accept Kenny’s homicidal tongue. They necked until dawn, whereupon they both passed out on the couch. Cartman dreamt he was a centaur. His dick wasn't any bigger, but Kenny didn't seem to mind.


End file.
